


The Stages of A Downward Spiral

by afteriwake



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-08 01:11:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1126595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afteriwake/pseuds/afteriwake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The evolution of Sherlock’s downward spiral during his addiction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Stages of A Downward Spiral

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Doctor_WTF](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doctor_WTF/gifts).



> One of the many prompts my **sherlockmas** recipient Doctor WTF wanted was a story about Sherlock’s past when he was abusing drugs. Many of the bits of it were inspired by the women who were residents of the recovery home I was the live-in manager of. It’s not a pretty subject, and I hope I got that across.

He didn't remember how it started. Most people who ended up hooked on drugs remembered their first hit, the first high that they always tried to recapture. He didn't, even though he remembered just about everything else. He probably should, considering how much the drugs had consumed his life as of late. Oh, he knew he was an addict, but he didn't care. He supposed that was the way it was, that all an addict cared about was his next fix and where it came from. He wasn't really denying he had a problem; he just avoided anyone who might notice, up to and including his family.

He had some control. He could go hours without a fix, maybe as long as twelve. It wasn't like he was scraping bottom to get it, either; he was able to consult on cases for Scotland Yard and no one was the wiser. He wasn't one of those addicts who had fallen on hard times and was panhandling just to scrape up enough money. He had money, he had connections who got him the good stuff for cheap. He was careful not to let the drugs control him. After all, while he might avoid much of society he needed to eat, and to eat he needed work. If he could fool the detective inspectors he was set. It was walking a fine line, but he was able to do it.

Still, the moments when he was cooking the drugs, when he put the tip of the needle in the spoon and pulled back the plunger of the syringe and watched the syringe fill up, when he was injecting the needle into his vein for the sweet release it would bring, those were the moments he preferred. Dealing with other people more than he had to was a hassle; if he could be left alone all the time and still get his fix that would be heaven, if he believed in such a place, which he did not. Heroin was his God, the only thing he truly bowed down to. That was the way he preferred it. And tonight, sweet ecstacy couldn't come soon enough.

–

He'd dabbled in other drugs at times. Ecstacy had done nothing for him, and any benefit of being touched and feeling those sensations had been lost on him as he was alone when he popped the pill. The auditory and hallucinatory effects of LSD had been interesting at first but quickly became boring when they began to distract him. Marijuana calmed his whirring mind a bit, but he hated the lack of motivation to do much of anything when he was done, and it took so much smoking to get any decent kind of high. He had only done crystal meth once, and that had been enough, as it had left him jittery and unable to function properly. Amphetimines stimulated his mind, that was true, but he had been unable to sleep for days and had become increasingly paranoid.

No, heroin and cigarettes were his drugs of choice. There was something about heroin that gave the sweetest high with few of the annoying side effects. It calmed the whirring in his head but didn't dull his senses all that much. He might get a little jittery when he went without, but that he could handle. And that was what the cigarettes were for; everyone assumed when he tapped a cigarette out of the pack he always carried with him it was just a nervous habit, that he was a stress smoker and he needed to calm down. No one had realized he was trying to control what few ill effects his drug of choice gave him.

He had a handle on it, he really did. Yes, he couldn't go quite as long now, perhaps eight hours, and he was finding he needed more to get the same high. He supposed something was different with his brain chemistry that he wasn't as addicted as he could have been. He could still go a long while without a hit, so he still had a handle on it. He was fine. He could pull off a semblance of a normal life while taking the drugs. He only needed it to calm the constant swarm of thoughts in his head, the thoughts that got too loud and left him unable to be his best. He was an addict, yes, but he still had control, and that was all that mattered.

–

It was four hours now, four hours that he could go without a hit. This would not do at all, he realized. He couldn't keep up the pretense anymore. He withdrew even more, stopped having an interest in things. He would go days at a time without bathing, days without eating, only trying to scrounge up his next hit. He had stopped doing his consulting work and so the money had dried up. He refused to go to his brother; Mycroft would spot his addiction in a heartbeat and send him to rehab, and the thought of the withdrawls terrified him.

He had attempted to quit once, when he saw control was slipping from his grasp. He had stopped cold turkey, as the term went, and within a day he regretted it wholeheartedly. He sweated so much he soaked his clothes all the way through. He vomited what food and water he was able to hold down, which wasn't much considering the very aroma of food made him nauseated. He had cold sweats and chills, and his muscles and bones ached so much he barely wanted to move. He had a fever which would not break, and the cravings were so intense that after a full day of going without he dragged himself out of bed and got more. When he felt it hit it all went away, and he vowed never again would he force himself to go without.

With no income coming in he resorted to desperate measures. He couldn't use his mind but his body was still available, and so he offered that to anyone who would give him his drugs. Male or female, it didn't matter. When the high was over he was disgusted with himself. When he was sober he hated the very sight of himself, hated everything he did for a hit. He had never enjoyed sex and he detested it even more now, but if he could offer his body up for another sweet release he would, because if he attempted to go without again he was fairly sure he would die. Perhaps by his own hand or perhaps because the withdrawal symptoms got to be too much, he wasn't sure. His life was spiraling out of control and he wasn't sure there was anything he could do about it.

–

He hated this life. He hated it more than he had thought he would. The highs were short now, so short, not nearly long enough. He was scraping the bottom of the barrel to get a hit. He knew the addiction had taken control, that he was in the grip of something far stronger than he was. He was close to hitting rock bottom, but he wasn't there yet. He knew if it continued he would end up on the cold streets of London, destitute, a stain on humanity. In the few moments he could think logically he knew he needed help, but he wasn't ready to ask.

Finally he had had enough. He had told himself one final hit, one final high before he caved in and went to his brother and begged for help. One final sweet release, however long it lasted. He had needed more and more to get high, so he sold himself one last time to get enough to give him one more moment of painlessness. He took it to the flophouse he now called home and with shaking hands he prepared it, went through the ritual of cooking the drugs and injecting it into his veins. He would miss the ritual so very much when he quit.

But something was wrong this time. He had overestimated, and he knew it almost immediately. He could feel his body shutting down, could feel him sliding into oblivion. He had not wanted it to end this way; he had not wanted to die alone in a place full of vagrants who would rifle through his clothes when he had gone stone cold and take what few possessions he had on his person. He thought of his mother, of how she would mourn him and wonder what she could have done differently. He thought of his brother, who would bear it all and be strong for his mother and count the fact that he lost another member of his family as a burden to bear with stoicism. And then he thought of nothing at all.

–

He woke up.

He had thought that wasn't going to happen, but he woke up in a hospital room, with bright white walls and a glaring yellow light. He had no clue how he had gotten there, but he was thankful. And then he realized he was not alone. There was someone to his left, sitting in a chair, head in his hands. He knew him. “Mycroft?” he asked, his voice scratchy and sounding like it had not been used in some time. How was that possible? He had only just made the deal for the heroin hours before. How could it be that he had not spoken in some time?

Mycroft lifted his head up. “I see the sedatives have worn off,” he said quietly, looking at his brother. “I thought it would be best, to help with the withdrawal symptoms.”

“How long have I been out?”

“Three days. The doctor believed the worst was over. You'll have to manage the rest of the withdrawal symptoms on your own.” He leaned back in his seat slightly. “Mummy was worried. She looks like she's aged ten years in three days. If I hadn't set someone to find you, to bring you home to get care, you would have died, Sherlock. We could have lost you so easily.”

“I did too much,” he said, sinking back into the pillow.

“Yes, you overdosed,” Mycroft said quietly. “You were found just after you had shot up. My subordinate saved your life.”

“So what now?” Sherlock asked.

“Rehab, first. You'll stay there until the doctors say you can leave. You'll do everything they tell you to do, no matter how much you want to balk at it. Then you will go live with my first landlord, Mrs. Hudson. She is a kind woman who will tolerate your quirks; after all, she tolerated mine. Most of the detective inspectors no longer want anything to do with you, but one has said when you get better you can contact him. Do you remember Detective Inspector Lestrade?” Sherlock nodded. “He's the only one willing to give you a chance. He said something about not holding the follies of youth against you. And then you start to rebuild your life, I suppose. Find a purpose that doesn't involve drugs.”

“Why are you doing all this?” he asked.

“You are family. We protect our own, and I should have done a better job protecting you,” Mycroft said as he stood. “I had thought I would have to strongarm you into doing all this, but I do not think I will have to. I'm not going to sugarcoat this, Sherlock. It will be hard now, harder than anything else you have done before. None of us are going to baby you, because you got yourself into this predicament. But we want to see you better, and we will support you.” He made his way to the door and paused with his hand above the handle. “I am glad you're not dead, Sherlock.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, and he meant it. Mycroft nodded and left the room then, leaving Sherlock to his thoughts. He was thankful to be alive, and he would make the most of this second chance. He had to, because he could not go back to that old way of life. That way led to death, and he did not want to go down that road again. He had much to live for, and only time would tell what new paths he would make for himself now that he had the chance.


End file.
